We'll Start With The Riding Crop
by MizJoely
Summary: When Sherlock said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've left my riding crop in the mortuary," he knew perfectly well he'd left it there. Now Molly has a little itch to scracth...and Sherlock is happy to help her scratch it.


_Tumblr Prompt: When Sherlock said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've left my riding crop in the mortuary." He knew perfectly well he'd left it there. In fact, he'd done it /just/ so he could happen upon Molly Hooper, who would no doubt be masturbating in the supply closet, having worked herself up watching Sherlock beat the corpse. And Sherlock was nothing, if not a gentleman. It was best if he…helped her with her little problem. – jackandhoney1_

_A/N: Sherlock's a gentleman…sort of. In that he knows exactly what Molly wants and gives it to her (and it ain't tea and crumpets!)_

_Sooooo NSWF and M rated. Light (super light) BDSM. Like, mostly a BDSM vibe rather than the actual thing._

* * *

Molly tried to hold in her moans, but it wasn't easy. Just seeing Sherlock lay into the corpse had gotten her so hot and bothered that she'd barely been able to contain herself long enough to tuck herself away in the most out-of-the-way supply cupboard she could find. Once there she'd locked the door and rapidly shimmied out of her trousers, unbuttoned her blouse, undone her bra and shoved her hands down her knickers, working her clit furiously as she teased her nipples.

Standing upright wasn't doing it for her, even with a mental image of a naked Sherlock applying the crop to her backside, and she quickly laid herself on the floor on top of her discarded clothing, spreading her legs wide and biting her lower lip as she pictured Sherlock employing the riding crop in various interesting manners on her eager body.

She was so caught up in her fantasies and looming orgasm that she failed to hear the sound of the lock being expertly picked. Nor did she notice when the door opened and was quietly shut as a tall, lean form slipped into the small room.

The first she was aware of Sherlock's presence was when she heard his voice saying, "Well, well, Miss Hooper, what have we here?"

Molly gasped as her body convulsed with her orgasm, the shock of being found out overridden by the way that velvety baritone acted on her limbic system. As soon as she'd recovered, however, she attempted to cover herself and scramble to her feet at the same time, only to be stopped by Sherlock's leather-gloved hand on her abdomen as he smoothly knelt by her side. "Don't move," he commanded her, his voice steely and eyes a deep, hypnotic blue, blazing down at her with a combination of ice and fire that she was powerless to resist.

She stared up at him, still panting from her private – well, semi-private, obviously – exertions, eyes wide as she waited to see what he would do next.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, and she obediently shut them, feeling her heart hammering in anticipation. His hands glided lightly over her flesh and she shivered as he brushed his fingers against her breasts. Then she felt one hand moving downward to tease the edges of her cunt, not quite touching where she most desperately wanted to feel him. "Keep still unless I instruct you otherwise, is that clear? Do you require a safe word?"

Molly nodded, then shook her head, then decided it would be better to simply answer him. "Yes, it's clear, and no, I don't need a, a safe word." She felt her cheeks burning; she'd never done anything like this before, certainly not in a storage cupboard at her place of employment! But even though she and Sherlock hadn't known each other very long, somehow she trusted him not to go further than she was willing to let him go.

"Good," he replied, his voice a satisfied purr. "Shall we start with the riding crop, the particular effect it's had on you?" She shivered and moistened her lips with her tongue, gasping as she felt one gloved finger sliding across her mouth as if to retrace the movement. "Miss Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar and respected member of St. Bart's pathology staff, brought to a sobbing, sodden mess by the sight of me flogging a corpse – the corpse of a man you once knew," he added, his voice meditative.

Molly shivered and bit back a moan as she felt the buttery-soft texture of his gloved fingers finally stroking her damp center. If he was worried about ruining the expensive leather, she heard no sign in his voice, and certainly there was no hesitation as he delicately slid one finger inside her. "A 'nice' man," Sherlock continued, his voice deepening a bit, the warm chocolate gone dark but with no edge of bitterness. Molly bit her lip and sucked in her breath as he simultaneously plucked her left nipple into a taut nub, and thrust the finger that had been teasing her center deep within her. "But you don't really like 'nice' men, do you Miss Hooper."

"I, I like them just fine," she protested, whimpering as he continued to finger fuck her. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, although she wanted nothing more than to gaze up at Sherlock as he continued to torment her sensitive flesh.

"Oh yes, of course you do." Sherlock's tone was mocking, and the fingers grasping her nipple twisted it, causing her let out a small yelp of mingled pleasure and protest. "As friends, as coworkers, but I doubt very much a 'nice' man would be welcome in your bed. Would he." When she failed to answer immediately, he twisted the nipple again, harder this time, and pulled his fingers out of her dripping cunt in order to tweak her clit as well. "Would he?" he demanded.

Molly arched and moaned. "N-no," she stuttered.

"Because Molly Hooper isn't attracted to 'nice' men." His voice was suddenly close to her ear, a breathy murmur that stirred the hairs that had come loose from her pony-tail and raised goosebumps on her flesh. "Take your hair down," he commanded and she reached up with eager fingers to obey, pulling the long tresses free and snapping the elastic around her wrist out of sheer habit.

That action seemed to capture Sherlock's attention; he pulled his hand away from her clit and grabbed her wrist, turning it back and forth as if examining it. She didn't fight him, had no desire to fight him on anything right now, since she was so incredibly turned on it was if he'd ignited a fire beneath her skin.

"Yes, your wrists would look lovely tied over your head, but not today, I think," he murmured regretfully as he gently lowered her hand to the floor. "Next time. At my flat. Acceptable?"

"Oh _yes_," Molly breathed, dazzled at the idea that Sherlock was thinking past this particular moment. This was so much better than coffee or indeed, any of the other vague thoughts she'd entertained about asking him out.

He murmured, "Excellent," before his lips descended to her breasts. Molly nearly opened her eyes as he mouthed her but managed to keep them tightly shut. He hadn't had to tell her that was part of the game for her to catch on. Besides, it was incredibly arousing, not knowing what he would do next, having no visual cues, being forced to rely on her other senses as he continued to toy with her body.

He continued to nuzzle and nip at her breasts, his hands ghosting along her abdomen and upper thighs while she writhed and whimpered beneath him. She wanted desperately to touch him; her fingers twitched with the effort to keep them still, and when he let out a low chuckle she knew he was fully aware of her frustration. "Please," she moaned as he suckled one nipple whilst simultaneously palming the other. He was still wearing his gloves– and the rest of his clothes, since she hadn't heard him take any of them off.

Sherlock gave a dark chuckle against her damp flesh, and the warmth of his breath only heightened her enjoyment…and torment. "Please, what?" he asked.

She felt him moving away from her and reached for him without thinking. He grabbed her wrists and swung his body over hers, straddling her supine form and pulling her arms up over her head. "Please, what?" he asked again, his voice a low, delicious growl. "Tell me, Molly; what would you like me to do to you?"

"M-mouth," she stuttered, knowing her face must be beet red, feeling the hot flush travel down her torso. "I want, I want you to, to use your mouth on me."

She felt his teeth tugging at one earlobe and gasped at the sensation. "But I've been using my mouth on you," he replied, with just the lightest edge of mockery in his voice. "You'll have to be more specific. Where, exactly, do you want me to put my mouth?"

"On my pussy," she finally managed to make gasp out as his mouth moved lower, down her neck and onto her collarbones. She'd never done anything like this in her life, had a man like Sherlock Holmes touching her, encouraging her to say such filthy, decadent things; previously she'd just sort of let things happen. This was so incredibly different, so erotic; she felt completely under Sherlock's power, and at the same time, as if she were still somehow in control.

When she felt those lovely, soft lips of his on her sex, however, she realized how illusory that feeling of control could be; he'd released her hands in order to position himself between her legs, but growled at her to leave them in place before grasping her arse and lapping with a precise delicacy at her hot, wet folds.

She came with a strangled moan, biting her lips and trying desperately to stay quiet as she shuddered through the aftershocks of her second orgasm. She felt Sherlock moving away from her, then was surprised to feel him pulling her up off the floor and into his arms. She snuggled close and sighed contentedly as he held her. "God, that was lovely," she sighed, eyes still tightly shut. She felt the bulge of his arousal beneath her lap and finally opened her eyes to look at him.

Sherlock was staring at her with an intensity that sent shivers over her nude form. "Tonight, after your shift, come to mine. 221B Baker Street," he added, his voice a hoarse growl. Then he stood up, assisting her to do the same, and watched avidly as she reclothed herself. When she made as if to touch him, to press her hands on that obvious bulge beneath his trousers, he caught her wrists and shook his head. "Tonight," he repeated, voice strained, as if it was taking all he had not to allow her to give him some release. "That's only two hours from now. I can wait." Then his lips curled in another of those slow, feral grins, and Molly's knees weakened. Right before he claimed her lips in a burning, possessive kiss, Sherlock said, "Besides, I want you fully recovered and ready for me when I slip my cock inside you, Molly Hooper."


End file.
